Feet moving quickly through the mud, he side-stepped, flexing his fingers on the grip of his sword to restore some feeling. The Askhan king was having serious doubts about his course of action. His foe wore armour heavier than any normal man could bear and his flesh, covered with unnatural carvings, was like toughened leather. Still, Erlaan-Orlassai was bleeding from many cuts, and even if it took another hundred such blows, Ullsaard was determined to finish him.
If he had the chance…
The Mekhani warlord attacked with a combination of quick strokes, sword flashing, parried away by Ullsaard's shield and blade at each attempt. Erlaan-Orlassai towered over him, swathing the king in shadow. Without thinking, Ullsaard dropped his shield and grabbed his sword in both hands, swinging up into the beast's groin with all of his strength. Blade bit into flesh between thigh armour and loin guard, slicing deep.
Ullsaard had no time to dodge the downswinging sword of his foe — as he had known would happen — and did his best to twist away, the edge of his opponent's blade carving a slice from his shoulder. The king could not stop the shout the sudden pain wrenched from him, but Erlaan-Orlassai was badly wounded too, staggering back as blood streamed from the cut in his groin.
Snarling and cursing, his left arm useless, Ullsaard dropped to one knee, panting. Around him the battle still raged; neither side paused to witness the spectacle of their duelling generals. Ullsaard paid no heed to the ongoing fight, knowing that he had won the battle if he could bring down Erlaan-Orlassai.
The other man limped closer, leaving a trail of thick blood across the muddy ground. A charging legionnaire was caught in the chest by the Mekhani general's shield, ribs crushed, organs burst by the strike. Ullsaard roused himself, forcing himself into a run. He dived under his opponent's sword as it descended towards him, angling the point of his blade towards Erlaan-Orlassai's foot. Bronze pierced the leather bindings around his foe's ankle and he felt metal scraping on bone. The twisted warrior roared in pain, drawing his foot back as Ullsaard scrambled to his feet, the king expecting a crashing blow against head or body at any moment.
Ullsaard saw someone stirring just behind Erlaan Orlassai. Harrakil sat up groggily, sword still in hand. The Askhan king shouted wordlessly to attract his foe's attention, fearing for the First Captain. He need not have worried; Harrakil looked up from a mask of blood and slashed his sword at the back of Erlaan-Orlassai's knee. Wounded in thigh, knee and ankle, the beast's leg finally gave wave and the Mekhani general toppled to one side with a howl.
'Pin him!' bellowed Ullsaard, sheathing his sword to pluck the spear from the hand of a dead Mekhani. He drove its point into Erlaan-Orlassai's exposed ankle, heaving with all of his weight so that the spear buried deep into the mud.
Yet the warped prince was not yet done. From his back, he swung sword and shield, slashing off legs and snapping bone. Dozens of legionnaires pounced, dropping their shields to plunge their spears two-handed into their disabled enemy. The crack of splintering bronze and the wet splash of blood sounded loud in Ullsaard's ears.
'His throat!' he heard a legionnaire call out. 'Cut his throat!'
That's the idea, thought the king, pulling free his sword again. He watched Erlaan-Orlassai thrashing desperately at more than a dozen spears piercing his arms and legs, as the legionnaire's cut through armour straps and used their spears to lever off plates of bronze; they gasped in amazement at the realisation that some of the armour was riveted directly into the monstrous king's flesh.
A surge of achievement rushed through Ullsaard as he pushed through the crowd, sword at the ready. The last of Lutaar's spawn was about to die, leaving no one to challenge him for the Crown. He stepped up onto Erlaan-Orlassai's chest, his mangled left arm hanging at his side, sword raised. Erlaan-Orlassai glared venomously at Ullsaard from under the rim of his helm, his golden eyes filled with hate.
'Time to join your grandfather,' spat Ullsaard, bringing his sword down.
He checked the blow at the last moment, turning the blade aside so that it rang harmlessly from the fallen king's helmet, slicing off part of the feathered crest.
'Kill him, king!' shouted Harrakil, still on the ground. 'Finish it!'
Ullsaard could not strike that fatal blow.
It was not mercy that stayed his hand, but self-preservation. In that moment as he swung his sword, he had realised what he was about to do: slay the heir to the Crown of the Blood. Aalun was dead, savaged by his own Ailur; Lutaar and Nemtun had both been slain by Ullsaard's hand; Kalmud had died according to the testimony of his son. The only two surviving descendants of Askhos were Ullsaard and Erlaan.
If Erlaan died, that made Ullsaard the true heir.
He stepped back, wondering what this would mean. Could he risk becoming the true heir now? What if Erlaan's death somehow completed the ritual that Askhos had devised, allowing the dead king to take full control of Ullsaard? So much was uncertain, it was not a chance the Askhan king was prepared to take.
'Bind him with chains,' Ullsaard snapped at his men, fearful they would slay Erlaan-Orlassai themselves. 'He gets to live for now.'
'You are doubly a coward!' snarled the fallen warrior. 'I do not want your mercy, usurper!'
Ullsaard ignored him, and the complaints of his men, who muttered their desire to avenge the many that had fallen to Erlaan-Orlassai's blade. The king stepped down from the giant's chest and walked over to Harrakil, extending a hand to help him up. The First Captain said nothing as Ullsaard pulled him to his feet.
'You have my orders, captain,' said the king. 'See that they are carried out.'
Harrakil nodded groggily and joined his men as Ullsaard surveyed the progress of the battle. It was far from won yet, but victory was certain. The Mekhani had broken the line in many places and there were thousands of dead on both sides but on the plain below, he saw the two reinforcing legions no more than a mile away. Without their general and with a fresh enemy at their rear, the Mekhani were breaking away in increasing numbers, streaming to dawnwards in scattered groups.
Ullsaard found a rock to sit on. He glanced at his shoulder, wincing as he saw the extent of the wound. There were orders to issue, a pursuit to organise; he decided he could let it wait. He glanced over his shoulder to where Erlaan-Orlassai's raving was growing weaker. Victory today was not the end of the king's problems, but it heralded the opportunity to sort out some more.
First on the list was the treacherous High Brother. Ullsaard had living proof of Lakhyri's involvement in the Mekhani attacks, though he was not sure what exactly it was that the High Brother had done.
With a sigh, the king stood up and called for his heralds to attend him. There was no point thinking about battles yet to be fought when he still had one to finish.
V
Back in his pavilion, Ullsaard sat on a stool while the surgeon, Luaarit, swabbed the wound on his shoulder. Harrakil and Meesiu, the First Captain of the Sixth, were in attendance; the other legion commanders were leading the pursuit of the broken Mekhani army.
'You were lucky,' said Luaarit. 'The blow just missed the bone. You could have lost your arm. As it is, you'll never have full movement again, there's too much damage to the muscle.'
Ullsaard grunted in reply, gritting his teeth as he lifted his arms at the surgeon's gesture, allowing him to wind a long bandage across the king's chest and shoulder.
'Do we head hotwards again?' asked Meesiu. 'We took Mekhani prisoners and they hint that another army is being raised in the desert. There's a lot of nonsense too, about this reborn king of theirs and a great city.'
'Their new king lies in chains,' said Ullsaard, wincing as Luaarit pulled the bandage tight. He considered the situation for a moment. 'Without that twisted monstrosity, I don't think this other army will be as much of a threat. Five legions should be enough to keep them at bay. I'll make Harrakil general.'
'And you, king?' said Harrakil, surprised. The commander's head was swathed in padding and bandages, one side of his face discoloured by a vicious bruise. 'Do you not wish to oversee the campaign?'
Ullsaard shook his head. Luaarit finished his ministrations and stood back with a satisfied expression.
'You'll have to get those dressings changed every two days,' said the surgeon. 'Do you wish me to accompany you, or will a couple of my orderlies suffice?'
'You tell me,' replied the king. 'Are your orderlies up to tending to their king?'
Luaarit smiled, wiping his bloody hands on his apron.
'They can change bandages and apply unguents well enough,' he said. 'Should you get a fever, I would advise you find a more qualified physician though. The wound looks clean enough but there is always the possibility of mortification.'
